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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977906">gunpowder residue</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gl_bgolyb/pseuds/gl_bgolyb'>gl_bgolyb</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the slaying of cetus [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Homestuck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Timelines, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bad Ending, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Mental Health Issues, Trans Female Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 19:00:16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,156</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23977906</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gl_bgolyb/pseuds/gl_bgolyb</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Roxy’s house is pink, almost obnoxiously so. In some timeline, a perfectly decorated home exists, and in another there is a cozy apartment, but in this particular version of the universe, Roxy lives in what can best be described as the bowels of a plastic lawn flamingo. There is no semblance of order in the living room, no cherished photographs on the walls, no fine art or weaving or oriental rugs. There simply is what is on the floor, and what is on the couch, and Roxy is hidden halfway between both, detritus scattered too randomly to be considered purposeful. </p><p>The bottles of vodka do not go unnoticed.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>the slaying of cetus [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1771024</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>37</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>gunpowder residue</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>unsurprisingly, this, like all of my work, was written in a quick period and then published with limited (no) editing. but i digress.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span class="text"><span class="rose">ROSE: Hey.<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: hey</span>
</span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">Roxy’s house is pink, almost obnoxiously so. In some timeline, a perfectly decorated home exists, and in another there is a cozy apartment, but in this particular version of the universe, Roxy lives in what can best be described as the bowels of a plastic lawn flamingo. There is no semblance of order in the living room, no cherished photographs on the walls, no fine art or weaving or oriental rugs. There simply is what is on the floor, and what is on the couch, and Roxy is hidden halfway between both, detritus scattered too randomly to be considered purposeful. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="narrative">The bottles of vodka do not go unnoticed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="rose">ROSE: So.<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: mmmhm<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: This is certainly something.</span>
</span></span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">It’s funny, how Roxy doesn’t really look like Rose’s mom, at least physically. There are some key features that are missing, or added on, and Rose writes that off as just another side effect of infinitely branching realities. But despite all of those superficial lackings, Rose can’t push the image of her mother out of her mind as she watches Roxy push a bottle under a blanket and stumble upwards, bones creaking as she reaches her full height. Her eyeliner is smudged, bright pink trails on her brown cheeks, and her smile is uneasy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="roxy">ROXY: ik what it looks like<br/>
ROXY: but rly im fine<br/>
ROXY: promise</span>
</span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">Roxy falls back and catches herself, waltzing into the hallway. Rose follows her into the kitchen, where there are more bottles and more debris strewn across the floor and the countertops. There is a heaviness in the air, something unpleasant and incorrigible, but Roxy seems to not notice it as she pushes cutlery into the sink with a strange sort of intoxicated expertise. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="roxy">ROXY: u want smth to eat or<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: I’m fine, thank you.<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: Roxy...what happened?</span>
</span></span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">She turns, still not facing Rose as she pours a drink. She is quiet as she grabs a jar of cherries from the fridge, as well as a can of ginger ale, and after making a Dirty Shirley, she sits down at the table and shrugs.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="roxy">ROXY: idk<br/>
ROXY: just started feelin rly shitty<br/>
ROXY: started drinkin<br/>
ROXY: felt a bit better<br/>
ROXY: woke up with a hangover and felt guilty<br/>
ROXY: drank again<br/>
ROXY: rinse and repeat</span>
</span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">Roxy drains the glass and carelessly shoves it against the tabletop, scratching behind her ear as she does so. She makes a face and Rose wonders if it’s the alcohol kicking in or a ripped scab--it doesn’t matter in the long run. The defeat is digging a shallow grave, and Rose has to pull her out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="rose">ROSE: I’m not going to get rid of anything. I know that’s pointless.<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: yeah lol<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: And as much as I’d like to join you, I think we both know what you have to do.<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: yeah<br/>
ROXY: :(<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: Where’s Calliope?<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: theyre at their place</span>
</span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">Rose raises an eyebrow as she starts cleaning. It’s going to take a while, and she isn’t particularly fond of chores at her own residence, but sometimes the first step is having an environment that doesn’t scream “the owner of this house is on a bender”. Roxy sniffles and gives her a halfhearted smile before wobbling upwards and hovering next to her. Rose tries to even her breathing--there’s something she still can’t quite handle about having someone behind her. They both smell the same, have the same posture, but Roxy is not her mother, and Rose isn’t hers.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="rose">ROSE: Is everything alright between the two of you?<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: ye<br/>
ROXY: nobodys comfy w/ my drinking<br/>
ROXY: but callie sometimes just closes off anwyway<br/>
ROXY: overwhelmed alot<br/>
ROXY: overstimulated &amp; generally kind of worrisome<br/>
ROXY: but they have their own lil safehouse<br/>
ROXY: n id rather have my partner b ok n safe then stressin the fuck out rofl</span>
</span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">There’s a faint breeze coming through the kitchen window. Rose closes her eyes and lets herself be whisked away in the soft summer air, if only for a moment. She wonders if Kanaya would oppose some secret getaway location, a tiny cabin in the woods for writing and sleeping. There have been too many <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23895961"> secrets</a> on her end, lately. </span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="roxy">ROXY: wbu and kankan? u 2 doin ok?<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: This is your mini intervention, Roxy. We can have mine at a later date.<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: :O<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: No, I don’t mean like that!<br/>
<span class="rose">ROSE: I just don’t want to disrupt what we currently have with my own problems right now.<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: but u already cleaned like half the kitchen<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: record time btw that shit was freaky fast<br/>
<span class="roxy">ROXY: i think you deserve a little vent time</span>
</span></span></span></span></span></span></span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative"><span class="rose">No. Fuck this. Nothing is wrong. </span>
</span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative"><span class="rose">That’s a lie. Everything is wrong, actually. This timeline isn’t up to code. You and I are insignificant, Roxy. We have diverged too far from any semblance of meaningful canon and now I am trying to help you stop drinking, which I know you won’t. We both know you won’t. </span>
</span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative"><span class="rose">If this is the deviance I think it is, you’re due to fall down the stairs and snap your neck in about four years, and when that happens, no one will be around to save you. If this is the continuum a little to the left, you will be found, but it’ll still be too late. To the right, we have a surviving Roxy Lalonde, but she’ll succumb down the line to organ failure. Another dies of old age, and another on the battlefield. But most versions of you, my mother included, die with an intoxicated bang.</span>
</span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative"><span class="rose">It's not like you're the only one, of course. There are infinite versions of all of us, different probable outcomes constantly shifting in some sort of great cosmic <i>danse macabre</i>. I die. Kanaya dies. Callie dies. My daughters die, those given relevance and those ripped from the narrative. Everyone dies, or is dying, or will die at some point, with the exception of a select few outside of my grasp of knowledge. 

</span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative"><span class="rose">But the Light is fading, a little more every day. You struggle to bring forth your bottles, and I can't see truth as clearly as I once could. Our godhood is leaving us. We did not win it fairly.

</span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative"><span class="rose">That’s upsetting to think about, right? That no matter what we do, no matter what intricate plot we plan, we will die in these discarded splinters? We can’t even call ourselves gods, anymore, Roxy. We can’t change the universe, but we can be forgotten. And frankly, it’s getting hard to wait.</span>
</span></p><p><span class="text"><span class="roxy">ROXY: rosie?</span></span><br/>
<span class="text"><span class="roxy">ROXY: ur lookin a little off bud<br/>
<span class="text"><span class="rose">ROSE: I’m fine, Roxy.</span></span></span></span></p><p>
  <span class="narrative">She looks up at her and gives her shoulder an affectionate squeeze. The corners of Roxy’s eyes crinkle, and she hugs Rose, nuzzling the top of her head with her chin.</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="text"><span class="rose">ROSE: We’re both going to be fine.</span>
</span></p><p>
  <span class="fakenotes">Notes:</span>
</p><p>
  <span class="narrative">
    <span class="rose">We are not going to be fine.</span>
  </span>
</p>
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